Guardian Angel

by Adam Carpenter

  Jimmy’s eyes gave her body the once-over, as though he were seeing her the way Henderson did. He saw that she noticed his lack of subtlety.

  “I wasn’t leering,” he said.

  “You I don’t mind, Jimmy, not that it would make any difference,” she said, with a laugh.

  “Wasn’t that my selling point, no danger of entanglements?”

  “Such a fun word. You’re both a catch and a waste, Jimmy McSwain.”

  Jimmy’s sexuality was one of the reasons he’d been hired. Given her notorious nature for falling for men of all ages, often men who were all wrong for her, she had vowed that her guardian would be someone totally unavailable. She didn’t want to be one of those people who ended up in affairs with their security guard, mostly because those hookups tended to play out on the front page of the tabloids. Serena insisted she was trying to downplay her reputation. Jimmy knew reputations often preceded the actual person, perception before reality. Still, when he’d received the call from his friend, Isolde Calloway, that the notorious Serena Carson was originally thinking of hiring a woman to protect her, another solution presented itself. Isolde knew how to keep things simpler for Serena.

  Serena patted Jimmy’s leg, met his eyes with hers, like sparkling emeralds. “A gay private detective. Who would have thought?”

  “They don’t go hand in hand, but they’re not mutually exclusive either,” Jimmy said.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what that means,” she responded with a throaty laugh that had lured countless men into her clutches.

  Serena wasn’t a nasty woman, nor a vindictive one, but she was intimidating nonetheless. She’d grown up alone in the spotlight, and she continued to do so, nearly twenty-five years since she’d arrived back in New York to take the city—and its men—by storm. She was the classic Poor Little Rich Girl, now a woman with an unhealthy thirst for men and attention. A hellion when she was younger, she never shied away from admitting to her age. Being brazen meant she could do as she pleased. It was expected.

  Through lips painted a ruby red, she said, “I wonder how many inches we’ll get?”

  Jimmy paused until he realized she’d been looking at the falling snow. He was saved from answering as the car pulled up along the long stretch of stairs before Lincoln Center’s wide plaza. He got out, edged around to the other side and helped escort Serena to the sidewalk. Flashbulbs went off, several people with cell phone cameras held behind metal barricades screamed out her name. She didn’t wave, merely offered up a knowing smile instead. She slid her arm into the crook of Jimmy’s, trying to sidestep the mushy snow with her expensive pumps as they made their way to the David H. Koch Theatre, where the classic ballet had been performed every holiday season for decades. Jimmy noticed she was scanning the crowd, a furtive glance hooding her green eyes.

  “You okay?”

  “Just wondering. This is the type of event Henderson loves: hoi polloi, money.”

  “Isn’t that why I’m here with you?”

  “Sitting right next to me. You do like the ballet, don’t you, men in so-tight tights?”

  “There are things to admire about it,” Jimmy said.

  “At least we have that in common,” Serena said, again releasing her noted laugh. “Oh, look there, it’s Meryl and her daughters…excuse me won’t you…”

  Jimmy felt her slip away from his hold, her sudden action wrenching his shoulder. A shock of pain felt like a dagger inside him. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed the pain and trailed after Serena, who was finishing up her talk with the acclaimed actress. Jimmy sidled up to her, tossed her a look that said don’t do that again. She slipped her arm back into his, tightening her hold on him. It was time to walk down the red carpet, tonight thankfully covered by a white tarp. The fans outside were as cut off as the snow. Jimmy was suddenly bathed in bright lights, more so when the photographers started clicking away. He wore a tux, because she’d asked him to, and she was in a couture gown of gold, which she revealed when she slipped off her fur.

  “Who’s your date, Serena? Another young one…” called out a reporter with a microphone.

  “He is darling, isn’t he? Jealous?” she shot back.

  Jimmy hoped that was the last of it; the spotlight wasn’t his world. He lived in the shadows, accustomed to the dark streets and noisy bars of Hell’s Kitchen, blocks from here but miles away in quality of life, but there were a few more photographers along the red carpet to endure and a few pestering questions from reporters about Jimmy. The former she happily absorbed; the latter she cagily avoided. Soon the two of them were whisked inside the warmth of the theatre’s lovely lobby. A glistening chandelier hung over them, its lights reflecting off Serena’s gown, emphasizing her natural beauty. Still, Jimmy felt a tense shift in her body language, a clutch of his arm as her feet stopped in their tracks. Jimmy easily saw the reason why. Across the room at the champagne bar was none other than the man she most wished to avoid.

  Henderson Carlyle was indeed in attendance, also dressed in a tuxedo, and damn if it didn’t look like an extension of his skin. Jimmy filled his out nicely, but he was more muscled than this toned man. His first up-close look of him, he could see what about him had attracted Serena. At forty-one, he was tall, slim, and tanned, with a shock of premature salt-and-pepper hair. He came from money and knew how to make people notice him. He also had about as nasty a reputation as you could get, and according to his research, Henderson had once been arrested in his twenties for beating a woman back in his hometown of Santa Fe. Not much had changed for him. Serena just a recent victim. How many were there between the first and latest? Seeing his smarmy look now, Jimmy wondered what motivated him and what protected him. The former, no doubt a powerful insecurity; the latter, money. Money bought clean police records.

  With a sideways glance at Serena and by default Jimmy, Henderson made the word smug ashamed of its definition. A simple raise of his glass seemed like a taunt, yet he remained in place, careful not to violate the terms of the restraining order. He might be an asshole, but he was a smart one, which also made him a dangerous man.

  “How about we get our seats?” Jimmy suggested.

  “Actually, I could do with a glass of bubbly myself,” she said.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. No reason to aggravate the situation.”

  “He won’t try anything, not here, not with such a hunk on my arm.” She paused then, with a vulnerable tone to her voice which surprised him, said, “Don’t let go of me, Jimmy.”

  As they approached the bar where the city’s high-glamour residents mingled and talked, a delicate dance began. Henderson swirled back, keeping his eyes on them but never drawing closer, almost as if he’d advance scouted the building and marked off the two hundred-foot barrier. That didn’t change the underlying threat. Jimmy swallowed a rising urge to approach him and wipe that hateful expression off his face with his fist. Instead, Jimmy stared him down, receiving back an Oscar-caliber look of woe-is-me innocence. Jimmy turned back when Serena handed him a glass of champagne.

  “Better not. I’m on duty,” he said, refusing it.

  “If you don’t, people will know you’re security, not a date. Henderson will know.”

  “That’s important to you?”

  “I can’t let him beat me,” she said and then, with regret lacing her voice, said, “Not again.”

  Jimmy allowed Serena to clink glasses with him in a silent cheer, noticing how her left arm shook. He took a sip then gazed back to the area where Henderson Carlyle had been circling. The man was no longer visible, a specter instead of a spectator. Jimmy couldn’t decide which one was worse, being seen or knowing he was lurking somewhere in the shadows.

  § § § §

  After the performance there was a private reception for people who had donated at least five thousand dollars to Help Is Here, a nonprofit charity that offered assistance to New York’s struggling families who suddenly found themselves jobless, homeless, or in need of cash for ma
jor medical expenses. The charity’s slogan was “It’s no Longer on the Way.” Serena was on the board of the charity, but still she’d written a sizable check herself, the amount barely making a dent in her sizable bank account. Little wonder the champagne was on the high-end; these folks could afford it. Jimmy would remember the seductive shape of the dark green Dom Perignon bottle from now on, as well as the velvety intoxication.

  The exclusive event was taking place in a private room inside the Koch Theatre, and the haughty organizers were quick to turn away party-crashers. That included the discarded Henderson Carlyle, who was not only a pariah among the board of directors and a beater of women but he was cheap, too, the worst kind of socialite. Never trust a rich man with no money. He was the kind of individual to look out only for himself, spending his soft-earned money on his own first-world indulgences. Seeing the swirling array of guests, Jimmy realized what a strange scene this was to him, who knew five-floor walk-ups, street corner fights with bullies, corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’ s Day, and life lessons from his tart-tongued mother. He’d take those any day.

  Still, it was interesting to see how the other half lived.

  Given that Henderson wasn’t at the reception, Serena could relax. She flitted about, kissing cheeks and glad-handing the donors, playing the role of the aging socialite with long-practiced and well-placed aplomb. Jimmy had to admire her: the adversity she’d endured since childhood, losing her parents in such a fiery, headline-making way, living with the expectation of being an heiress, trailed by the paparazzi until being whisked off to Europe for private schooling. It was only after she had grown into a beautiful young woman—model worthy—that she returned to Manhattan and began her lifelong fling with the press, not to mention the men she shared her bed with. She was unapologetic; she knew what she wanted—and what she didn’t want. Her devotion to charity work was what endeared her to New Yorkers from all walks of life and helped pave the otherwise free ride she got from potential naysayers. She might use her money to live a good life, but she also used it so others could too.

  Jimmy should know. She had paid him handsomely, keeping him on retainer for weeks, not just for these such occasions. He was on call, anytime day or night. That was fine with him. His work was his life.

  Standing in the corner, watching her in action, he noticed that someone was watching him.

  A handsome man of Asian descent, standing about five feet eight and maybe aged thirty-five but could be a youthful forty, his thick black hair was slicked back, a severe part on the side. He was dressed in a tux as well, but then again all the men were for this black-tie affair. Jimmy had to admit it looked distinguished on him, natural, almost like he’d been born in one. Jimmy shifted his position, adjusting his bow tie and wishing he could take off the strangling accessory. Turning away, he saw Serena reaching for the arm of a man young enough to be her son, blond, tall, perfect teeth. He observed her pinching the man’s butt cheeks, a devilish smile on her crimson lips. Nope, definitely not her son, so perhaps her next conquest.

  “Your type?”

  Jimmy realized the man who’d been watching him had found the courage to step forward.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The blond, the one with Serena Carson.”

  “Actually, I’m Serena’s escort.”

  “That I noticed, but you’re not her date.”

  Jimmy nodded, took a sip of his bubbly. “And how would you know that?”

  “Call it a hunch. I saw you when you arrived.”

  “Did you?”

  “I don’t mean it to sound…creepy. You go to enough of these things, a new face suddenly emerges from the crowd and gives you hope. It’s a nice face, too.”

  “Thanks,” Jimmy said.

  “I’m Hai-Boi, officially. Friends calls me Steven.”

  “Not exactly a natural nickname, is it?”

  “I’m a doctor of oncology at New York Presbyterian. Dr. Hai-Boi Wang. Doesn’t flow.”

  “So Dr. Steven Wang?”

  “It’s easier,” he said. “At your service.”

  “I hope not,” Jimmy said, trying for a light tone while assessing the situation. Was Steven making friendly conversation, or was he trying to pick him up? He was definitely giving off a gay vibe. He was a close-talker, invading Jimmy’s personal space but not in an overly intrusive manner, just making sure he got noticed. Jimmy decided to let it ride, see where this went.

  “I meant personally, I’d be at your service,” Steven said, his voice suddenly serious. “You’re quite handsome.”

  “That’s kind of you, Steven.”

  “I still don’t have your name.”

  Just then a commotion occurred in the middle of the room, diverting Jimmy’s attention.

  He zeroed in on Serena, and at her side was Henderson Carlyle. Shit, how the hell had he gotten in? Did he really think a five-thousand-dollar-per-person reception nullified the terms of a restraining order? Nor was he keeping to that two-hundred-feet-away rule; he was not even two feet away. His hand was gripping her arm, preventing her from being able to walk away. Jimmy quickly excused himself and pushed his way through the crowd, making his way over before the scene caught the attention of everyone in the room. He only had time to curse himself for dropping his guard.

  “Let her go,” Jimmy said, intervening. He stared first at Henderson’s dark eyes then at his clasped fist around Serena’s wrist. “Now.”

  The thing with bullies is that they back down when confronted, especially by someone bigger, more threatening. Jimmy easily won the intimidation battle, and even if his tone wasn’t imposing, his physicality and the look on his face could have knocked Henderson to the floor. First his expression wavered. Then Henderson’s hand did as asked, falling to his side.

  “We were just having a friendly chat, no need to go caveman on me,” he said.

  His accent was a mix of upper crust and British, and to Jimmy it sounded forced. He knew this man came from a wealthy family based in the Southwest, but he also knew a black sheep just from his attitude, the scorned scion, according to one news report Jimmy had read while doing his due diligence on the case. Being this close to him, Jimmy assessed that the man’s tux was not painted on as he’d first mused, more like it oozed off of him. He was slime personified.

  “This is an exclusive party,” Jimmy said. “I don’t believe you were invited.”

  “Au contraire, my date, Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud, who just happens to be the chairperson of the board for Help Is Here, will vouch for me…oh damn, where has she gotten off to now…?”

  “If she’s smart, she’s far away from you. You do the same with Ms. Carson.”

  Henderson might have already released his grip, but he hadn’t put any distance from her side. He smoothed down the lapel of his tux as he addressed Serena. “Really? You could do much better than this lunkhead,” he said.

  “And I could do worse and have,” Serena said, her words dripping with derision.

  A few witnesses chuckled aloud, leaving Henderson Carlyle red-faced with embarrassment and shame. Between the two of them, his actions and her words, they had neutralized him. He took his leave, not just from their presence but from the party. Jimmy watched him depart the reception room, which was then abuzz with chatter about what had just happened. Gossip often outweighed the underlying message of the night. Serena had, up until then, done an admirable job keeping the restraining order quiet; none of the tabloids had gotten wind of it, nor had they known about the abuse he’d heaped upon her first. That was all about to change.

  A photographer came by and took a shot of a visibly unnerved Serena.

  “That’s enough,” Jimmy said, escorting her away to a table, where she could sit and collect herself.

  They were soon joined by the tall blond man who had previously been attentive to Serena’s advances. The man bent down, keeping his eyes level with hers. He held two glasses of champagne, one of which he handed to Serena. The other did not make i
ts way to Jimmy. It was a good reminder to Jimmy that he didn’t truly belong here; he was on a job, and he swore he would keep the distractions at bay.

  “I leave you alone for a minute to grab celebratory bubbly…and that brute attacks you.”

  “Oh, Robbie, I’m fine. Jimmy took care of matters.”

  This Robbie fellow, whom Jimmy suddenly visualized as a grown-up version of that bland cartoon character Richie Rich, turned and gave him a snooty, judgmental once-over with icy blue eyes. “Indeed. I see that your…protector did his job. I thank you, sir, but your services will no longer be needed tonight. Ms. Carson is in fine company.”

  Nice of him to review his own self. Where was he when Henderson was threatening her?

  “I answer to Ms. Carson,” Jimmy said.

  “Oh, boys, no need to compare penis sizes,” she said, attempting a laugh but still rattled by what had happened. “Jimmy, it’s okay. Robbie will take me home.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

  “Jimmy, I’m still Serena Carson, and I’m not going to change my habits…my life, because of one insufferable creep. Henderson got his comeuppance tonight, shamed in front of the people he thinks of as his friends. Trust me, tomorrow they’ll all be on the phone inviting him to a hastily assembled dinner party. They’ll want to know the real scoop, and he’ll eat it up all while he wines and dines the night away in style on someone else’s dollar. It’s his specialty, spooning off others.” She paused, offered up a slight upturn of her lips Robbie’s way. She reached out and planted a kiss on the man’s lips. “And this is what I do. We are all creatures of our own desires.”